Robby gives him a quiet laugh, more like an amused huff of air out of his nose, before he hums, “Yeah, I know.”
He can’t remember how he got to this moment.
Earlier, Trinity had set down another shot of something lemony in front of him only minutes after the tequila shot, talking about something bullshit something something Yolanda something.
He couldn’t really hear anything over the sound of Mel screaming into the karaoke microphone on the stage beside them.
Oh, yeah. Drinks at the bar, not at the park.
He hiccups and blinks to focus his eyes, feels the brick of the building against his back and the warmth of Robby beside him—so close, he was basically pressed up against him, and that wasn’t very professional or anything, right?
Nothing was professional about the way Dennis felt about his attending. Well, maybe the respect part. Or the admiring part. Or whatever.
He was leaning against Robby, though. Not the other way around.
Robby is so solid, unmoving, so strong. So kind. He was waiting for the uber he’d ordered to take Dennis home, right?
“You okay?” Robby asks, his voice so soft, so sudden, it startles him.
Dennis’ world tilts and he goes with it, sliding down the wall a little, just enough that when he leans against Robby again, his flushed cheek is pressed to Robby’s bicep.
Oh, he’s trouble. In trouble.
The bicep is surprisingly cool against his cheek. Robby rarely wears just a t-shirt, or at least Dennis rarely sees him in one, but it was hot in the bar so Robby had pulled off his sweater about fifteen minutes after he’d arrived. Not that Dennis noticed. Not that he was admiring the tattoos decorating those biceps.
Anyway, none of that matters.
What matters is that when Dennis peeks up at his attending, Robby is staring down at him, his eyes shining with maybe mirth or amusement or whatever emotion a couple drinks let Robby openly show him.
And Dennis isn’t sure what makes him do it — well, probably the alcohol — but he turns his cheek, pressing his lips and chin to that bicep, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over drunkenly as he holds Robby’s gaze.
Parting his lips, his tongue dips out and licks across the amor fati written into Robby’s skin, slow and purposeful. Emboldened by liquid courage to do what he couldn’t while sober.
The mirth quickly disappears from those dark eyes then and Dennis wants to laugh.
But, he doesn’t. Instead, he tastes the salt of Robby’s skin, feels the warmth meeting his tongue, feels arousal pull in his gut as Robby gets this look in his eyes.
Like he’s thinking things an attending shouldn’t think about his student.
Even though Dennis has thought of them all already, late at night, with a hand wrapped around his cock and a forbidden name muffled into his palm.
A laugh that doesn’t belong to either of them breaks the tension suddenly, Dennis quick to pull away and straighten himself as a couple of girls exit the bar from the door a couple feet away from them, paying the men no mind as they stumble down the street in a fit of giggles.
Dennis blinks, hard, and then Robby’s hand is grabbing the nape of his neck. He knows it’s Robby because that man can’t stop touching him, whether it’s his neck or shoulder or back or wherever Robby wants to touch him.
He wishes he had the courage to tell him that.
Robby leads him forward, towards the car that’s pulled up in front of the bar, and opens the back door. The hand on his nape grips a little tighter as Robby leans in, his lips brushing Dennis’ temple as he says in a rather tight voice, “Get home safe, Whitaker,” before pushing him forward.
It’s probably funny, the way Dennis falls into the car, but he can’t bring himself to laugh as he curls up onto his side and hears the door slam shut behind him, reality sinking in moments later.
